Clive Cussler - Serpent

Gonzalez thought the man had tripped, but the move was deliberate. The man picked up the ball in his ankles and, using his legs for leverage, looped the ball in the air. His teammate gave it a boost with his head, and the ball flew toward the ring. For an instant it looked as if there wasn't enough force to send the ball through the ring, but the aim was true, and the ball slipped through the opening then bounced onto the court again.

The game was over.

There was a wild burst of screaming from the spectators on top of the walls.

Then silence.

Gonzalez and his teammates stood there panting, sweat-drenched clothes caked with dirt and grass. The ball had been sent through the goal with practiced ease. They'd been toyed with, Gonzalez realized; their opponents had truly played like gods, and there was never a chance of winning.

The interior wall of the courtyard was carved with a series of pictures. Gonzalez had paid little attention to the artwork before, but now he followed the eyes of his opponents. The carvings showed a series of players facing each other over a ball marked with skulls. In one a victor held a knife in one hand arid a head in the other. A decapitated victim knelt before him. Blood flowed from his neck in the form of serpents.

The crowd closed in, forced him and his companions to their knees. His hair was grabbed roughly, exposing his neck, and Gonzalez knew his fate. Three sword-like knives flashed in the air, and three heads thumped to the ground almost simultaneously eyes blinking frenetically, as they rolled to a stop near the ball that had sealed their fate.

High in his treetop observation post Zavala whispered hoarsely, "My God!" He couldn't believe his eyes. Zavala had watched the ball game, more curious than concerned, actually enjoying, the play. Even at his distance he could see it was a rough game indeed. But it was only at the last minute that he saw how lethal it was for the losers: He scrambled down the tree and ran through the chaparral toward his car.

The room within the pyramid was immense, its stone block walls lined with glass display cases holding dozens of priceless jade masks. On one wall was a huge screen. Halcon watched as Gonzalez and his teammates played out the last bloody moments of their life, then turned to the scarfaced man who sat in a leather chair puffing on a cigar.

"Would you like to watch the instant replay, Guzman?"

"I'll catch it later on sports highlights if you don't mind, sir," the scarfaced man replied.

Halcon waved at a hidden sensor, and the screen went blank.

"Don't tell me you're losing your appreciation of the ball game."

"I'm not ready for cricket matches yet, sir," Guzman replied, taking a sip from his brandy glass. "But the games are far too short and lack skill and finesse."

Halcon plucked a cigar from a gold-embossed humidor of fine leather, lit up, and surveyed Guzman contemplatively through a curtain of smoke, unsurprised at the bluntness of the answer. He had known Guzman from the day he was born, when Halcon's s father appointed his trusted henchman as his son's official protector. The man was totally without guile, which is why he was so refreshing to a Machiavellian schemer like Halcon. He glanced at the screen. "You're right," he said with disgust. A brawl like that demeans the goals of the game, to instill fear and obedience in my followers while giving them a pride in their cultural past."

His hand went to his phone console. "Have the winning ball team line up for their awards where I can see them," he ordered with a curt command, then went over to a glass cabinet that held several rifles and handguns. He pulled a rifle with a telescopic scope off its rack and said, "Come, Guzman."

Halcon led the way through a door onto a darkened balcony that overlooked the complex. The winning ball players stood in a line on the bright green of the ball court. Halcon brought the rifle butt to his shoulder and squinted through the telescopic sight. The rifle cracked three times with Halcon smoothly working the bolt. When the echoes of gunfire faded three still figures lay on the grass.

"I know you prefer the Austrian rifle for your assignments," Halcon said, surveying the deadly result of his handiwork with satisfaction, "but I've always had good luck with this English L42A1."

Guzman gazed out at the ball court and curled his lips in a sardonic smile. "I suppose you've just terminated their contracts."

Halcon laughed, and they went back inside. He carefully replaced the rifle in its case and turned to the scarfaced man.

"My apologies, Guzman. I should have known better than to suggest that the man who single-handedly sank the most beautiful ocean liner in the world was losing his taste for blood sport. I must apologize, too, for keeping you in the dark about my plans for so long. I didn't ask you to my sanctum sanctorum tonight simply to watch that pitiful performance on the ball court. You will be the first .to hear the details of my grand vision for the future."

"I am honored, Don Halcon," Guzman said with a slight bow of his head.

Halcon lifted his brandy snifter to a huge gilt-framed portrait over the massive walkin fireplace. "To my distinguished ancestor, the founder of the Brotherhood, I dedicate my fondest dream."

The oil was done in the El Greco style, except in this painting the subject's long face and pointed ears were not exaggerated. The saturnine tonsured man in the simple dark brown monk's cassock had pale, almost translucent skin in stark contrast to the red voluptuary's lips. Diamond-hard pale gray eyes glittered as if reflecting flames. The background was in shadow except for a glow in one corner, where a struggling figure 'was being burned at the stake. Guzman first saw the painting. of Hernando Perez as a young initiate into the Brotherhood. Halcon's father had explained with an ironic grin that Perez had the artist put to death as a heretic because he wanted his portrait to be the man's last.

Guzman was the first and only non-Latin member of the order. He was the illegitimate son of a German Stuka pilot stationed in Spain and a Danish nursemaid in the Halcon household. The pilot died in the war, and the maid committed suicide. The old master raised the boy in his house and provided for his upbringing. His motive was not altruistic. He recognized that one unquestionable loyal follower was more valuable than a platoon bound only by self-interest. He gave him a new name and sent Guzman to the forest schools, where he learned to speak several languages, and to more specialized tutors who versed him in the martial arts and use of weapons. Guzman killed his first man during the saber duel that gave him his hideous scar. The old master's vision was justified. Guzman grew into a devoted aide whose natural skills for murder and mayhem proved to be a bonus.

"I remember your father saying that Perez was basically a simple man," Guzman said.

He was a fanatical nihilist. The good archdeacon formed the Brotherhood of the Sacred Sword of Truth because he felt Torquemada was too soft on heretics. Fortunately," he said with a smile, "his priestly vows didn't prevent him from enjoyments of the flesh with the female novitiates. Otherwise the Halcon family would not be here. Nor did his religious zeal stop him from stealing the property of those he condemned. His beliefs resulted in the Brotherhood's prime directive."

Guzman recited the directive like a recording machine: "The Brotherhood's prime duty is to erase all evidence of prior contact between the Old and the New World before Columbus."

"It is still our duty, but I am about to make some changes."

"Changes, sir?" The directive was holy writ in the Brotherhood.

"Don't be surprised. The Brotherhood has shifted direction before. We evolved from a religious group to a terrorist organization to protect the Spanish crown. We did our work well. The Brotherhood stamped out suggestions of pre-Columbian contact that questioned church dogma and hence the infallibility of royal decisions. By defending the belief that Columbus was the first European to travel to the New World, we kept other countries from claiming our riches. That's why doubting his deeds was a capital crime. As a youth I remember asking my father, `Why does that still matter? King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella are dead. Spain is no longer a great power.' "